Chapter 3

As Mortis sat by the crackling campfire, his mind filled with visions of the adventures that awaited him in Eldoria. The gentle rustle of leaves and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures lulled him into a sense of peace, the warmth of the fire chasing away the chill of the night.

Tomorrow promised new discoveries and challenges, and Mortis welcomed the prospect with open arms. He believed in the inherent goodness of people, in the bonds forged through shared experiences and mutual trust. Little did he know, his unwavering optimism would soon be put to the ultimate test.

Lost in thoughts of the future, Mortis barely noticed the approaching footsteps until a voice shattered the tranquil silence.

"Hey, you there! What business do you have camping in these woods?"

Startled, Mortis turned to see a group of armed figures emerging from the shadows, their eyes gleaming with curiosity rather than malice. They were rough-looking individuals, but Mortis sensed no ill intent in their demeanor.

"I mean no harm," Mortis replied with a friendly smile, rising to his feet to greet the strangers. "I am merely a traveler passing through these lands."

The leader of the group, a burly man with a scar running across his cheek, regarded Mortis with a mixture of suspicion and intrigue. "A traveler, eh? And what brings you to these parts?"

Mortis's smile widened as he extended a hand in greeting. "I seek knowledge and adventure," he explained enthusiastically. "I wish to explore the mysteries of Eldoria and uncover its hidden truths."

The man exchanged a knowing glance with his companions before returning Mortis's smile. "Well, you're in luck, traveler. We happen to be in need of someone with your... talents."

Mortis's heart swelled with excitement at the prospect of joining forces with fellow adventurers. "I am indeed a healer," he admitted, "and I would be honored to assist you in your endeavors."

The man grinned, his scarred features softened by genuine warmth. "Fantastic! We could use a healer like you. We're planning to explore a nearby dungeon, nothing too dangerous, just some low-level monsters and the promise of treasure."

Mortis's eyes sparkled with anticipation at the mention of a dungeon. It was an opportunity to put his healing abilities to the test and perhaps uncover new knowledge in the process. With a nod of agreement, he accepted the adventurers' offer, his trust in their intentions unwavering.

They set out from the village outskirts just as the first light of dawn began to pierce the horizon. Mortis walked alongside the group, his heart light and his steps eager. The landscape shifted from rolling meadows to dense, shadowed forests, the path winding through ancient trees that whispered secrets to the wind. The journey was uneventful, but the camaraderie among the adventurers made the time pass quickly. They shared stories of past exploits, their laughter mingling with the sounds of the forest.

Draven, the leader, walked at the front, his presence commanding and confident. He glanced back occasionally, offering Mortis reassuring smiles. The others followed in a loose formation, their gear clinking softly with each step. Mortis felt a sense of belonging he hadn't experienced in years, and it warmed him.

After several hours of trekking, they arrived at the entrance to the dungeon, a yawning maw of darkness set into the side of a rocky hill. The air grew cooler, carrying a faint, musty scent that hinted at the depths below. Draven raised a torch, the flickering flame casting eerie shadows on the stone walls.

"Stay close," Draven instructed, his voice low and authoritative. "This dungeon is relatively safe, but we should remain cautious."

Mortis nodded, his excitement tempered by a sliver of apprehension. They descended into the dungeon, the world above disappearing as they ventured deeper into the earth. The initial chambers were wide and spacious, the walls adorned with ancient carvings that told forgotten tales. Mortis's eyes roamed over the intricate designs, marveling at the craftsmanship and wondering about the history of this place.

As they progressed further, the passages grew narrower and the air colder. The sound of dripping water echoed through the corridors, and the flicker of the torchlight revealed glistening patches of dampness on the stone. Mortis kept close to Draven, his senses alert to every sound and movement.

Occasionally, they encountered small, harmless creatures that scurried away at their approach. Mortis couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement at the sight of these dungeon dwellers, his mind racing with thoughts of the unknown dangers that might lie ahead.

"How much further?" one of the adventurers asked, his voice bouncing off the walls.

"Not far now," Draven replied, his tone reassuring. "There's a chamber up ahead where we can take a break."

Mortis followed the group deeper into the dungeon, the walls narrowing and the air growing colder. His heart pounded with a mix of excitement and apprehension. They passed through a series of damp, echoing corridors before the leader, a man named Draven, halted and pointed to a figure lying on the ground.

Mortis hurried to the side of the fallen adventurer, who was clutching his side and groaning in apparent agony. The dim light of the torches cast eerie shadows on the stone walls, creating an atmosphere thick with tension. Mortis knelt beside the man, his hands already glowing with the soft light of his healing magic.

"Hold still," Mortis instructed gently, focusing his energy on mending the supposed wound.

As he worked, a nagging sense of unease gnawed at the back of his mind. The adventurer's groans seemed exaggerated, his eyes flicking towards Draven and the others with an almost imperceptible smirk. Mortis's concentration wavered, and in that instant, the trap was sprung.

A sharp, searing pain exploded in his back as Draven's blade plunged deep between his shoulder blades. Mortis gasped, his eyes widening in shock and betrayal. The glow of his healing magic faltered, his hands trembling as blood poured from the grievous wound.

"Wh-why?" Mortis choked out, his voice barely a whisper as he collapsed to the ground, his vision blurring.

The adventurers surrounded him, their faces twisted in cruel delight. Draven twisted the blade before yanking it free, sending a fresh wave of agony through Mortis's body. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the cold stone floor.

"You were too trusting, Mortis," Draven sneered, wiping the blade clean on Mortis's cloak. "Thanks for the help. We don't need a healer—we need sacrifices."

Memories of his past life surged through Mortis's mind—the betrayal, the pain, the cold grip of death. The same scene playing out once more, the same helplessness, the same anguish. Tears mixed with blood as they streamed down his face.

"No... not again," Mortis muttered, his voice cracking. He pounded his fists weakly against the ground, the sound echoing hollowly in the cavern. "Damn you... damn this world!"

His strength waning, Mortis cursed the heavens and the earth, his rage and sorrow a tempest within his fading consciousness. He could feel his life slipping away, his vision narrowing to a pinprick of light as darkness encroached from all sides.

As the last vestiges of life ebbed from his body, with a final, shuddering breath, Mortis succumbed to the darkness, his body lying still in a pool of his own blood. The world around him faded to black, the echoes of his curses lingering in the silent, cold dungeon.